


Necromancy for Dummies

by Shadows_of_Starlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadows_of_Starlight/pseuds/Shadows_of_Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new prophecy once again singles out Harry Potter as the only one who might be able to save them all. The trouble with this, is that the Boy Who Lived, has been rather dead for five years. It falls to a reluctant Draco Malfoy to find a solution, with only Severus' portrait, and more Dark Arts than you can shake a Snitch at for help. (This one's kind of twisted, folks, but with plenty of humor interspersed. AU post the tail end of Deathly Hallows).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necromancy for Dummies

Necromancy for Dummies

Prologue

He laughed, standing still for a scant heartbeat amidst the chaos, “I don’t believe it. Did you just make a joke, Perce?”

But when he turned around, Percy was nowhere to be found.

“Oh yes, very clever.”

The sound Fred Weasley heard as he whipped his head around reminded him of the time a Fanged Frisbee had gone whirring past his cheek, and for a second or two he wasn’t sure just what it was that he saw. Fanged Frisbees had little place in a combat zone, after all.

His eyes attempted to adjust to the near darkness (who’d killed the lights anyway?) and if he squinted, could just make out a human shaped silhouette that was most certainly not his brother, nor indeed, anyone that he’d ever seen before.

This person who was decidedly not a flying toy with teeth observed Fred even as Fred observed them right back. Though it could easily have been Fred who did the observing first. Time didn’t seem to run the same here, wherever ‘here’ was. Hell, maybe it had even stopped.

He stood up to meet their gaze (when had he lain down anyway?) and had to swallow a snicker as he realized that he had to look –down- in order to do so. This person was slim and compact, smartly dressed in a crisp suit that appeared to be starched to within an inch of its clothing life, of sombre black, relieved only by the soft pink Oxford that they wore beneath and the snippet of white heeled boots that peeked out from under the hem of their trousers.

Green eyes glanced at him, unimpressed and impatient, and for a moment, Fred thought wildly of Harry. Where was he, how was he holding up against the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy? But, that wasn’t right. Harry’s eyes were the green of Spring and living things (not that Fred made a habit of staring adoringly into Harry Potter’s eyes or anything, because that was just too creepy for words), and this person, their eyes were somehow flat and unchanging (though they were perhaps annoyed with him) and the colour of the Killing Curse or Basilisk skin.

Fred was still in the process of determining whether he or she –was- a he or a she, and got stuck somewhere around the bit where it appeared they were wearing makeup, but didn’t appear to have breasts of any kind, when they spoke again.

“If you’re quite finished Mr Weasley? We have a schedule to keep to.” And damn, their voice was fairly androgynous too. Double damn. Fred had been hoping for a hint. Perhaps a coin toss was in order? Only there didn’t seem to be anything in his pockets. Would a coin toss in his head count as cheating?

And just like that he stopped debating long enough to reply. “How do you know my name? And where exactly do you think I’m going to go? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a War going on, lady.”

The crisply dressed person sidestepped his sarcasm with aplomb. Fred wondered if it chafed. “Frederick Gideon Weasley?”

“What part of War didn’t you understand?”

“Frederick Gideon Weasley?” They reiterated with some measure of exasperation. Fred was specially gifted in Exasperation. Too bad –that- hadn’t been a course at Hogwarts.

“You still haven’t explained how you know my name, let alone why everything is so, you know, quiet here.” Fred said around a niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right beginning to overshadow his internal debate over this person’s sex. He was locked in a no holds-barred battle with himself, and currently they were arm wrestling, and equally matched, male against female, leaning towards female. Fred’s mind was a very busy place at the moment. It didn’t have the patience for this stuff when there were more important matters to settle. Couldn’t this person see that?

Maybe they were just all-pervasive, as opposed to all-knowing? He wondered if it would be rude to ask. Then he wondered just when the fuck he’d started caring about being rude?

This place was mucking with his head. Who were they fighting again? Why were they bothering to fight? Oh yeah! Old Snake Face, and, uh, because they were fated to always fight him. And because the prophesy said so. Or something.

Fred frowned. “Yeah, yeah, I’m Fred. But you already knew that, Miss Know It All, so why ask me three thousand times if you already knew? Isn’t that, you know, redundant?”

The blond with flat, acid green eyes stared at him, completely unenthused. “Proper procedure and protocol are never redundant, Mr Weasley.” They shook their head in some non-committal movement that Fred had no hope of understanding. He’d always been pants at nonverbal communication. Unless it was with George. He was fluent in twin-speak, which sort of made up for his total lack of comprehension of most other people entirely, especially the female folk. Maybe that was why they were getting nowhere.

“Now, shall we move along? We’re already behind schedule.” And then to herself, himself? “This nonsense is why I stopped doing field work. What –has- become of the world these days that the dead can’t stop long enough to be dead?” Then he (but then again, still might be a she) paused. “Wasn’t that a Dickinson poem? Oh well, no matter.”

Fred blinked. Blimey. Only crazy people talked to themselves out -loud.

He received a grievously put upon sigh for his blank stare. “Clearly you possessed no culture whatsoever. Alright, shall we?” This person asked with very little patience.

“Shall we what, tango? I don’t dance without music, or ulterior motives, I’ll have you know, and those shoes don’t look too comfortable for it either.” Fred said, quite nonplussed, hands in his pockets, surveying this person thing with a spark of interest. Maybe if he won this wager with himself he’d get something interesting out of it. Like what? His sensible half wanted to know, but he squashed that out of sight, this place must have let it out of its cage again. Some things were meant to stay chained.

For all time.

This time, ‘insufferably aggrieved,’ had been exchanged for ‘scathing.’ “You are completely off of your rocker, aren’t you Mr Weasley? Dancing is for ballrooms, and as you can see, this most certainly is not.” He/she looked most put upon.

Fred nodded. “So dancing’s out then. Did you forget to remove the pole from your arse this morning? Only you look about as rigid as Ron after a row with Harry.” He reached out, to do what, may never be known, as this Very Professional professional swatted his hand away in irritation. “And this sort of thing is why I’ve stopped doing field work. Kindly keep your hands to yourself.” Merlin, but this bloke (bird? Fred still hadn’t decided) had an icy voice.

“Alright already! I’m sorry! Sheesh. Most people wouldn’t lose their nut over,” but this time Fred derailed himself. “Field work, you say? So, what sort of work do you do, then?” He asked instead, passably curious.

“I’m Death, or –a- Death, at the least, and something like your case worker for the moment,” they said somewhat waspishly, before seeming to remember something Very Important, and retrieved a small placard from their ruthlessly efficient notebook and handed it to him.

“Scott?” Fred asked, turning it over incredulously, before acknowledging that, yes, DEATH, had just given him his business card. “I, er, pleased to meet you? I think.”

‘Scott’ eyed him over the rim of his glasses (Fred had lost, because Scott was most definitely a boy’s name, and was going to owe Other Fred-who laughed a bit like George did- 5 Galleons). “Did you want a handshake?” he asked crisply, as though he honestly did not care one way or the other.

Fred cocked an eyebrow. “You’re… not much of a people person, are you?”

“Quite,” Scott replied, snapping his notebook closed smartly. “Follow me, if you please, because you certainly can’t stay here.”

“Where exactly is ‘here’ anyway?” Fred gestured, possibly stalling for time. It was only human nature to fear the unknown, not that he was especially afraid, just apprehensive.

“Between,” Scott said, and that was apparently that, because he began to walk, heels clicking a muted ‘clack-clack’ against a floor unseen.

“I’m ever so glad that we had this conversation, it was ever so illuminating,” Fred said acerbically, following after the pert blond, because, really, what else could he do?

Scott came to an abrupt stop, and Fred nearly ran him right over. “Don’t.”

Because it was Fred, he pressed the issue. “Don’t what?” he asked, face the picture of radiant innocence.

“Don’t act smart, Mr Weasley. It –doesn’t- suit you,” Scott replied, as though Fred were completely inept.

“Oi!” Fred said with some heat. “I am NOT stupid! I’ll have you know that my brother and I were behind some of the most illustrious, and industrious magical mischief since the days of the Marauders!”

“Impressive,” Scott said dryly, so dryly that Fred nearly asked if it hurt to talk like that. “This way, please,” he added with marginally less bite, directing Fred’s attention towards what very much looked like the entrance to an office building, but that couldn’t possibly be right.

Except that it seemed to be just that.

Fred’s incredulousness grew exponentially as they passed through the sliding glass doors and into a lobby filled with people who seemed to be in varying states of acceptance, though most, he noted, were simply sitting quietly, waiting their turns to be ‘processed,’ and wasn’t –that- an ugly word?

He trailed along behind Scott blandly enough, though rest assured, paused to wink and send a patent-pending Weasley smirk to the lovely ladies behind a pane of glass that they passed en route, to wherever it was that they were going.

At length, they came to a painfully mundane corridor, lined with equally identical doors that Fred would have had no hope of discerning from one another, but Scott opened one, eventually. Fred scowled slightly. He was beginning to feel like a Crup puppy or something.

“Please, have a seat, Mr Weasley,” Scott said briskly, indicating either of the Spartan, folding chairs on the opposing side of his desk, while rifling through a (no doubt) ruthlessly efficient filing system.

Fred was an equal opportunity opportunist, and admired the view without qualm. What could he say? The man had a nice arse. That was a fairly unisex body part to appreciate.

“Would you kindly STOP ogling me?” Scott hissed waspishly, sitting down, and stacking an alarming number of documents with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

“What ~is all that?” Fred asked with a hint of trepidation, and neatly bypassing Scott’s irritation in one go. It was the second cardinal rule of Magical Mischief Making, never act guilty. This rule directly coincided with the first and third rules; if you break the rules, don’t get caught, and if you –do- get caught, have a fantastic story up your sleeve. After all, know thy enemy, and know thy enemy’s weaknesses, and if mystifying them with brilliance (or baffling them with bullshit) didn’t work, then fully admit to your mischief with pride, and accept any punishment with a smile for a job well done.

“Your paperwork, of course,” Scott replied automatically, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. In a strange way, this prickly bloke with a barbed tongue reminded him a little bit of Hermione, Godric bless her inner Ravenclaw soul.

“Paperwork,” Fred repeated flatly.

“Paperwork,” Scott confirmed, with what might have been the sound of grinding teeth, before nudging his purple spectacles up where they belonged. “Now, to get started, let’s go over Article 1 of 42, clause 564, ‘So You’re Dead, Now What?’,” and began to read from a tome that appeared from somewhere, and that looked to be from the First Age of Magic, in a deadpan voice that sounded eerily like Professor Binns describing an especially gory goblin war. He felt his eyelids begin to droop after the second sentence. Within a few moments, his head was nodding against his chest.

“-And furthermore, should the recently deceased fail to Process, he or she will be subject to a Penalty, whereupon they shall perform an allotted period of mandatory service to Death, and-,” Scott broke his monologue when Fred began to snore, loudly.

SLAM!

“Urich the Oddball!” Fred blurted out, startled awake again.

Scott’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline, and his lips had thinned to a hard line.

“Frederick Gideon Weasley! Did you just FALL ASLEEP in my office!?”

“Ah, perhaps?” Fred replied with a poorly masked yawn.

If desks could cry, Fred imagined that Scott’s would be fairly sobbing. Anything gripped –that- tightly had to be feeling a substantial amount of pain. Fred sort of felt sorry for it.

Fred wondered if Scott was going to growl. He kind of doubted that it would be terribly imposing, though. He leaned forward on his elbows, head cocked to one side as though he were seeing Scott for the first time.

“You know, you’re kind of cute, for a bloke.”

Scott sputtered. “I beg your pardon? That is entirely inappropriate Mr Weasley.”

Fred scoffed. “Why don’t you just call me Fred already? Since you’re my case worker, and all? I expect that we’re going to be seeing rather a lot of each other.”

“And what EVER would give you that idea?” Scott asked frostily, his gloved fingers holding onto his precious paperwork for dear non-life. “As soon as we’re finished with the formalities, and you’re signed off and on your way, I sincerely hope to never lay eyes on you again.”

Fred grinned as widely as the Cheshire Cat. “Ah, but that’s IF I sign off, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked warily, a strong feeling of foreboding building behind his already strained eyes.

“I mean,” Fred said slowly, “that if I don’t sign that crap, I don’t ‘move on,’ right?”

Scott would have breathed fire if he only could. “Correct. However-“but Fred cut him off.

“And you can’t –force- me to sign them, can you?” Fred asked, with far more self-assuredness than could bode well for Scott, himself.

“Not exactly…” he admitted with all the enthusiasm of someone undergoing an invasive, excruciating surgery without anaesthetics.

“Brilliant! Then I’m not signing those papers, and I’m not going anywhere.” Fred crossed his arms behind his head and winked at Scott mischievously.

Scott stared at him in swiftly dawning horror as the implications of what this could mean set off various and sundry alarm bells in his head. “What?”

His expression was priceless. Fred just smiled serenely.


End file.
